


Eyes at the Foot of the Bed

by SuedeScripture



Category: Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dog Show, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuedeScripture/pseuds/SuedeScripture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy hits the American dog show circuit and gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes at the Foot of the Bed

HARRISBURG, PA

It wasn’t so much that the rental company at the airport took forty-five minutes to round up a van big enough to fit Winnie’s crate and all their supplies and luggage after they’d both had a very uncomfortable, very bumpy sixteen hour flight over the Atlantic, even though he’d reserved one specifically. It wasn’t that Customs took twenty minutes before that to sort out whether all of Winnie’s paperwork was really in order (if it wasn’t, the people at Gatwick probably wouldn’t have put her on the plane, thanks). It wasn’t the fact that the GPS he’d asked for broke as soon as he was far enough away from the airport that it would be a pain in the arse to turn back, or that the Holiday Inn chucked a fit when he mentioned that he had a seventy pound Scottish Deerhound that would be sharing his room, though their website claimed be dog friendly.

“A _what_?”

“Deerhound. She’s a dog. A big one.”

“Is it vicious?”

“Ehm, no. She’s a champion in several countries. I doubt they’d allow that if she was.”

“I don’t much care if it’s the Queen of Sheba, if it pees on the floor, you’ll being paying extra.”

It wasn’t that there didn’t seem to be a damned pub, grocery, or back alley anywhere that sold liquor after nine PM in this state for whatever godforsaken reason. It wasn’t even that Winnie circled in her crate after he’d shut the lamp, circled again and again and again, each time nosing the door in passing so that it would rattle against its frame pointedly until he got out of the cold, hard bed and let her out to sleep on his feet, even though he’d had to promise the nervous clerk at the front desk that she’d stay caged like the ferocious wild beast she is.

It was that their classes were all first thing in the morning, and of course Winnie won them all, which meant he’d have to sit and wait all day until Group. And not having a fancy trailer to hide in like so many of these other paid handlers, he’d have to hang around the show grounds, which inevitably meant mingling. And he fucking hated that.

This was supposed to be Winnie’s swansong. International Champion Aodh’s Winsome Winifred, the top winning Scottish Deerhound on record, worldwide. He’d taken her all over Europe, Canada, Japan, South America, back to the UK, and now they were meant to come back to America like some... what was that daft phrase? Ah yes, _like a thunderstorm upon a Scottish moor_ , Winnie’s owner Daphne had said with much deepening of dimples and watery eyes and a precariously tilted martini in one hand. Billy had found out the hard way that crap American whisky really shouldn’t be snorted into one’s nasal passages in trying not to expel said liquid all over Daphne’s doily covered coffee table. But that was fine, she’d mistook his watering eyes as uncontrollable weeping of joy that she should be asking him to end Winnie’s career this way.

Winnie’s owner was a Texan, which brought two visions to Billy’s mind. There were Texans: the hard, ranch-roughened Marlboro Man sort with big guns and skin of leather that asked, _Do ya feel lucky, punk_? Then there was the other sort of Texan: big houses, big cars, big hair, big pocketbooks, and big friends in big places. A part of Billy was aware there were other types of Texans that didn’t have trouble blending in with normal society, of course, but… well, they blended in, didn’t they?

Daphne Morgan was of the second sort, complete with the mansion on a sprawling ranch (where she employed several of the first sort) and the debutante daughters marrying off to the sons of big friends. Though she wouldn’t hesitate to fill you in on her proud Scottish ancestry, which certainly explained why she bred Deerhounds and had a summer cottage outside of Edinburgh and why she’d handpicked Billy as the _only_ handler in the world who was fit to campaign her top bitch, and of course, why he’d accepted.

In reality though, Billy had spent his life on the damned show circuit in Britain, and had even got all the way to the top, to Crufts, the biggest dog show in the world. After which he’d been fully intent on disappearing, when Daphne had shown up and waved an offer in front of his face that couldn’t be refused. The part that made him feel exceptionally guilty wasn’t because he thought Winnie was a fantastic animal to work with, or that she was the best in the world, or that he liked her and was particularly knowledgeable about her breed at all. It was the fat paycheck that came along every time he collected a fancy ribbon. A concept in this sport he despised, that the very wealthy (Daphne, and her husband’s slick black goldmine) were perfectly happy to pay someone else to do the grunt work while they basked in the pride of winning as though they had anything to do with the climb. But at the time, three years ago, he’d had three maxed out credit cards and all of £26 left to his name, and was fairly sure that wouldn’t cover a bus ticket back to Glasgow, sans the top winning spaniel he’d discreetly sold right off the winner’s platform to bring his bank balance up from -£778.

Now that Daphne was paying all of his expenses and adding a nice round number to the end of each win for his last three years jet-setting with Winnie, these next four shows would be the end, and he could go home and get comfortable, maybe take a job in a used bookshop, maybe even find himself a lad who liked dogs as much as he did. Or maybe go stark raving mad.

Because if Winnie won this last stretch, gathered up all the trophies and stupid china tea sets and god-awful porcelain dolls and other material baubles that came along with winning, she’d retire and go back to Texas, to be bred and make long-legged, knobby-kneed puppies for him to bring up and campaign and live this same sorry existence for the next however many years it took off his life.

But if she lost, she’d retire and go back to Texas and make long-legged, knobby-kneed puppies for someone else to bring up and campaign. Because Billy was sick to death of this, and all he really wanted was Scenario A with the bookshop and the boyfriend and the dog at his feet. Preferably, this dog.

Okay, so she’d completely won him over. Damned dog. But really, who didn’t love a scruffy yet aristocratic looking beast who begged for belly rubs, crossed her front feet very primly when she lay on the settee, gave a rueful chocolate mopey _look_ when getting a bath, made a wuffly noise through her long nose when she was content, and had been the only thing with a soul for him to really talk to for the last three years? As far as Billy was concerned, Winnie was his best and only friend. She was the comforting weight on his knee when he was in another motel room watching sitcoms and feeling lonely. She knew all of his secrets, including the particularly filthy ones, and wouldn’t tell. She approved or dismissed all possible bed partners, and he trusted her judgment on that subject completely. She was the only consistent thing he had.

But she wasn’t his dog. He fed and watered and walked and trained and played and won with her on the end of his lead, but at the end of the day, even as she lay her long head across his ankles in bed at night, she still belonged to Daphne on paper. He was little more than her well-paid escort.

The fact of the matter was that, win or lose, this consistency of companionship had an expiration date. Four weeks and three days from now.

 _For love or money_ , he thought bitterly, because who was he kidding? He was forty-two years old, had few useful skills and hadn’t been in one place for more than three days in a decade. He knew that his future was either stay on the fucking show circuit forever, or take a wild leap into the unknown. He ached to get out of this lifestyle and into something more consistent and less frenetic, but the prospect terrified him at the same time.

Billy looked around the Events building, going through vendor’s booths to see if there was anything he might need, and watched classes for other breeds. He avoided, if he could, groups of catty ladies who scrutinized and whispered and sometimes got in heated arguments over this brand of supplements or that brand of hairspray, and so on and so forth.

Everywhere he went, he heard snatches of gossip, this special, that judge, who was in, who was out, ad nauseum. And everywhere he went, the same name kept cropping up.

“So, who’s this Monaghan bloke everyone’s talking about?”

Billy had found himself somehow sucked into one of those groups (it was Winnie’s fault; she’d been recognized by the sighthound battalion, damned dog), listening to them nattering on about this bitch and that handler, when a name he’d heard a dozen times today came up again.

The hennish chatter stuttered to an abrupt halt as six heads swiveled around. He rounded his brows innocently in an attempt to deflect the sweep through the group that had a distinctive _Oh bless his heart, he’s new_ buzz to it.

“Darling, you’ve not heard?” cooed a woman with a brace of Italian Greyhounds in coordinating coats. “Monaghan’s the “It” man right now. Everyone wants him. He’s a bit of a favorite among quite a few of the judges, what with that Wire Fox he’s campaigning. My friend Joan, she pulled out of Columbus because he was there. She said it was on account of Blanchett, but I knew she was lying.”

There was a huffed murmur of assent and much rolling of eyes throughout the group. Billy tilted his head, “Blanchett?”

“Only the most horrid judge you can imagine, honey,” the Wolfhound woman crowed. “She’s got favorites, and then she’s got _favorites_ , that woman. Even Monaghan hasn’t placed under her ice tempered glare.”

The women tittered with amusement. Winnie pushed her nose under the flap of his suit jacket and he absently scritched at her ear. “Oh, don’t worry, dear,” said the Wolfhound woman, “Blanchett’s not here this week. Least I’ve not heard tell anyway. McKellen is though, and Monaghan’s got him eating out of his hand. McKellen’s particular on his terriers.”

“Particular on Monaghan, if you ask me,” someone muttered.

“ _Rose_!” the Wolfhound woman gasped in affront.

“What? That old man’s queer as a clean pig in a muddy pen.”

“Where’s this Monaghan set up?” Billy asked nonchalantly.

“Well, I’m sure Winnie will win.” The Wolfhound woman’s eyes darted to Winnie, who gazed back with flat indifference. “I think Monaghan’s in Grooming Area Three with the rest. You’ll get along, the two of you. After all, he’s British!”

Billy forced a grin, “Ehm. Right. Ladies, excuse me.”

He led Winnie off, ignoring the giggles and whispers following him.

 

 

Billy stood a few yards away, wanting to observe without drawing attention to himself. The man looked fairly young. If Billy didn’t know any better, he would have thought him an assistant to some older, more famous handler. But his hands were experienced on his dog, fluffing an area here, plucking a stray hair there, blending shears flashing in a large, long-fingered hand.

Monaghan wore navy pinstriped slacks with a slightly darker shirt, a vinyl grooming apron tied over both. A quick survey of the area found a matching jacket and a silver tie on a hanger nearby. _Sharp_ , Billy thought, knowing full well that the dark suit was selected to show off the brilliant white and red of the dog’s coat. _Daring too_. Billy glanced down at his own standard charcoal suit, which rather matched the salt and pepper grey of Winnie’s wiry hair. This was, after all, a sport steeped in tradition, and frankly fashion in the dog show world was a little... well. One could say it’s the dogs that keep up with the times.

“You match your dog,” a low sultry voice said as if reading his thoughts, and Billy raised his eyes again to see Monaghan glancing up briefly from trimming the Wire Fox’s foot just so, having moved around the table, facing him now. He caught a flash of razor sharp sapphire blue beneath slightly unkempt eyebrows and a fringe of artfully tousled hair. The ragged pair of checkered Vans on his feet seemed distinctly out of place, treading on a number card.

“What?”

“Your dog,” Monaghan rumbled with a grin, eyes darting quickly to Winnie, then back to his work. “Quiet, alert, always watching everything, those sighthounds. You match.”

Billy glanced down at Winnie, who stood placidly at his side, eying a pair of Norfolk terriers in a crate in the next space, hoarsely yipping at her. “I suppose.”

“I’m a terrier man myself,” Monaghan stated the obvious, which Billy acknowledged with a nod, coming a bit closer.

“You’re that bloke wot took Crufts with the Springer a few years back, aren’t you?” Monaghan asked.

Billy grinned at his shoes. So he did have a bit of a name, after all. “Aye, that’s me.”

Monaghan glanced at his flashy silver watch and tugged off his grooming apron. Slipping into his jacket ( _fucking nice cut, that suit_ Billy thought), he hastily knotted the tie around his neck, then lost the Vans and shoved his feet into a pair of shined dress shoes to complete the presentation.

Tucking the terrier under one arm, he cut his sharp eyes back to Billy once again. A crooked grin oozed confidence and charisma from what would otherwise be a peculiar face as he marched up to Billy and boldly scratched under Winnie’s chin with his free hand. “Looks like I’ve finally got some competition, then.” His gaze darted between Billy’s eyes, a challenging curl gracing his mouth, before he quickly brushed past.

Contemplating that dare, Billy caught sight of the slip of paper on the floor again, bent to grab it and called him back. “Oi, mate.”

The man turned, exasperation apparent in his face; he was clearly running late to be ringside. Billy approached and took the lad’s left arm, “You forgot your number.”

Monaghan blinked in surprise and then relief as Billy clapped the paper to his bicep and pulled a rubber band from his own pocket to secure it, holding a grin at bay. It was an amateur mistake, forgetting one’s number on the way to the ring, and the way his name had been spouted all over this place, this Monaghan was no novice handler. Billy’d love to believe it wasn’t just pre-competition nerves that had thrown this cocky lad off. Those penetratingly keen eyes crawled over his face as he straightened the paper, from his hairline down his nose to his mouth and back to meet his own. Billy brazenly readjusted his tie as well, twitching it so the knot was square and perfectly dimpled under his collar. “I’d say you owe me one, hmm?” he murmured, arching a brow.

Monaghan turned, set the dog on the ground and they trotted quickly off, his shoes clicking fast against the concrete.

Billy blew out a breath, and then grinned at his own blatant come-on. But Christ, no wonder this bloke had the judges wrapped around his (long, pretty, ringed in silver, those are nice) fingers. Maybe it was that suit after all, if any judge under the age of eighty had the eyes to look. Maybe it was the gravelly purr of his voice. Maybe it was those eyes. It definitely had something to do with the eyes. Couldn’t just be the dog, though it was a fine dog. Fine man too, if Billy was one to judge, admiring just how nicely that suit was tailored as Monaghan moved away.

Winnie made a sort of knowing rumble in her nose, gazing up at him with those soulful brown eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chided affectionately, tugging on her ear.

 

 

Billy didn’t see Monaghan again until he was waiting ringside with Winnie for the Hounds. Monaghan was in the Terrier Group ring as he watched, and had his little dog showing off, right up until he was at the table for inspection. Once there, the sharp lad was nothing but smiles and a few words that no one could hear, but had the old judge holding back a grin. He and his dog received blazes of applause from some sects and looks ranging from jealousy to outright hatred from others.

It was a fine dog, really, but when the judge named Monaghan straight to Group First without even pulling out a short list, Billy was just a little surprised. Pulling out his program, he scanned down the list of judges and found that it was in fact the man named McKellen. Perhaps Monaghan’s little dog was that good after all. Or perhaps Monaghan was simply playing the house, with money or… otherwise.

But after he’d shaken the hands of all of his competitors, accepted his ribbon, and made a great fuss over his dog for a job well done (the little dog did a back flip off Monaghan’s chest to thunderous applause), Billy saw him discreetly lift his arm and kiss the number card displayed there. Grinning, Billy lined up outside with the rest of the Hounds, and as the Terriers made their way out, Billy caught Monaghan’s gaze and held it. Monaghan hesitated as if to speak, but the Hounds were quickly called in.

Winnie took the Hound group with little difficulty, under an elderly judge whose sequined gown rather startled many of the dogs into backing off a bit. And if it wasn’t that, it may well have been her perfume, judging _Hounds_ of all things. The poor Bloodhound nearly swooned. Billy wasn’t surprised at the win, but graciously shook hands and accepted the ribbon. Afterwards, he was shooed to a podium with cameras where a reporter asked several rather brainless questions and succeeded in making him nervous.

“Mr. Boyd, this is your first American win with Winnie is that correct?”

“Ehm, well, it’s not her first, but it is mine with her, yes.”

“And how do you feel?”

Billy balked, “I feel? Oh, I feel fine, good. It’s a good feeling.”

“And she’s a Scottish dog?”

“She’s… well, she’s a Scottish Deerhound, yes, but American-bred, as it were.”

“And an International Champion, Mr. Boyd, tell our viewers which countries this lovely bitch has taken.”

“Do you… you want me to list them all?” Billy racked his brain. “Erm. Most of Europe, the UK, of course, Brazil, Argentina… erm, Canada… Japan! Tokyo was fun…”

“And handled, if you remember, ladies and gentlemen, by the man who only a few years ago took Crufts with his beautiful English Springer Spaniel Champion Fairdown’s Gypsy Rose. Tell us Mr. Boyd, how is the lovely Gypsy doing nowadays?”

“Erm, she’s…erm, she’s doing well. Retired, you know, has had a litter, or two now, p-probably…” Billy winced, feeling like a feckless idiot.

“Of course, as we all know by now. Ladies and gentleman, Winnie is the number one Hound in the world, and the number one Scottish Deerhound of all time and the first of the breed ever to be awarded the Platinum Grand Champion designation by the AKC. This seems to be the year of the British Invasion, and indeed, _this_ is the international team to beat. Back to you, Ed.”

A second later the woman was barking an order for someone to find her assistant to fix her hair, and he found himself and Winnie escorted neatly out of the way, only to be faced with Monaghan grinning speculatively at him.

“She said _we_ were the team to beat not fifteen minutes ago. Stupid bint.”

Billy composed himself and smiled back, “Alright there? Got your number?”

Monaghan’s bright eyes flicked down to Winnie, this time appraisingly, while his sharp little terrier stretched to the end of his lead and the tips of his toes towards her, yipping and wriggling like a pup to get her attention. Winnie granted him one light sniff for his trouble and pretended to be interested in the wailing child of a spectator, whose ice cream had fallen from his cone.

At length Monaghan’s eyes came back to Billy’s, and turning away, he gave a conspiratorial _C’mon_ head jerk.

Monaghan jabbed his crooked chin at the other competitors milling around, waiting for Best In Show. “Poof, eleven o’clock, with the bloody gorgeous handler,” he noted and Billy looked, finding a jet black Standard Poodle in the usual garish topiary haircut, standing stock still while it’s handler—also dressed to the nines in a sharp black suit—held it by the nose, very carefully teasing its coat to perfection and spraying it liberally with Aquanet. As the handler stepped around to check the other side, Billy gasped as he made note of Monaghan’s _bloody gorgeous_ assessment. “Right?” Monaghan confirmed, “Don’t bother though. Shows the poofiest breeds you can imagine, does Bloom, and goes home to his Airstream trailer with a little black mongrel and lesbian porn. Shame, that.”

He turned a bit to point out the next contender, “The Springer’s doing pretty well. He’s lucky, really, the real English types don’t usually do so well in the States, but Hill judged the Springers earlier, and he likes them a bit rougher around the edges. I suppose Bean figures to make a revolutionary strike back to the old style on this side of the pond. Not that it’s ever worked, you know how the Yanks love to think they’re better at everything. Look at that bastard. Looks like he goes dove hunting with that dog on his Sheffield estate on Sundays, eh?”

Billy had gone pale early on in this little speech, ducking behind Monaghan (and noting wildly that hey, they were roughly the same size) and murmuring his abject terror under his breath, “Shitshitshitshit… oh shit.”

“What?”

“I know him,” Billy muttered. “ _Shit._ ”

“Yeah?”

“Aye. Was up against him at Crufts that year with the Springer.”

“So? You won it.”

“Aye. And then I sold that bitch to him for a lot less than I should have.”

Monaghan blinked, looking at the dog, and then back. “ _That_ one?”

Billy peeked around Monaghan’s shoulder for a moment before sighing with a little relief. “No. That’s not… my Gypsy had a brown kissing spot on her forehead, but… but that’s one of her pups. It’s got to be, might as well be a carbon copy of my girl.”

“Your girl?” Monaghan rounded his brows and grinned cheekily at Billy’s distress, “Kissing spot?”

Just then, Bean looked up and caught sight of him, a wide grin spreading across his face as he strode over, looking for all the world like he’d already won.

“Boyd!” Bean’s booming voice swept over him. Billy gave a preemptive wince. Winnie lifted her head a little higher and pricked her ears up, keeping an eye on him. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Billy made a strangled noise and plastered a false grin back on, though his voice came out wrong, “Ahah, yeah! Fancy that!”

“You’ve done well for yourself,” Bean observed, his glinting eyes disguising nothing of how much he enjoyed seeing Billy squirm, “Making the rounds at someone else’s expense, I see.”

Billy’s hand automatically went into Winnie’s rough coat for comfort. “How’s Gypsy doing, then?”

“She’s well,” Bean answered, and his face softened to Billy’s relief, “Enjoying the country life back home. I think I might put her to my stud once more this year before she’s through. This is one of her pups from her first litter.”

“I can see that,” Billy muttered, looking over Bean’s dog with a critical eye to avoid having to look at the man himself. She was her dam’s line, no doubt, though now that he was getting a closer look, his practiced eye could see Bean’s breeding in her as well. She was quite a spectacular bitch over all, which only rubbed Billy’s nose in the piss all the more.

“Another one of us, eh?” Bean had elbowed Monaghan now, “Bloody Yanks are in an uproar this year, they’ll have the quarantine laws changed over here next.”

“We’ll have to set up a footie match to settle it,” Monaghan grinned.

“Or a drinking match,” Bean countered with a grin, cuffing Monaghan in the arm, “Good luck, eh, Dom? Boyd.” His tone was slightly more sinister toward Billy as he led his dog off toward the Poodle and his handler.

“I see how it is,” Monaghan turned a wicked grin back on him. “A little friendly rivalry, then?”

Billy snorted, drilling daggers into Bean’s back with his eyes, “More like a blood feud.” Monaghan tilted his head inquisitively, but Billy fastened his eyes on a man who looked green around the edges, with a wriggly Husky at his feet. “Who’s that?”

Monaghan followed his gaze and smirked. “Never seen him before today, but that pup apparently stormed the breed competition, all of seven months old too. Look at that guy, looks like he’s about to piss his knickers. Someone told me his name earlier but I forget. Austin? Astin? Something like that.

“Anyway, look here,” he pointed to a Pug handled by a pretty blonde woman, but was attempting to mount the leg of a large man who was making much of the little dog. The way the handler looked on in distaste told Billy everything he needed to know, this dog was utterly spoiled rotten while at home with the large man, and the poor handler had to retrain him to behave every round of shows. “There’s our Toy group, who may fall off the table if he’s owner gets him anymore riled.”

“And then there’s you,” Billy continued for him, meeting his eyes. Monaghan and his Wire Fox were also Best In Show contenders.

“And you,” Monaghan nodded, lifting his chin confidently and grinning. Then he hitched a thumb over his shoulder, back at the ring occupied by the last group in the running, “And now we wait and see if Elijah takes Herding. Which he will.”

“Elijah?” Billy questioned.

“Manga Boy, with the Beardie.”

Billy scanned the line of dogs in the ring and found a young, large-eyed man with a very well turned out Bearded Collie. “Beardies are Scottish, you know. You Sassanachs will have us double teaming you.”

Monaghan rolled his eyes and picked up his terrier, “Clearly, you’ve not met this little bastard, then.”

“Oi, there,” Billy politely scratched the little dog round the ears and tugged gently on his beard. The dog mopped his hand with his tongue, still keenly interested in Winnie, who was making a point to ignore him. “What’s your name, then?”

“Solo,” Monaghan replied, and at Billy’s eyebrow, he hid a slight blush by lifting his jaw again, “But that’s International Champion Edelhaus Jedi Rebellion, to you.”

Billy raised the other eyebrow, but more at the “International” bit than the rest.

“See you from winner’s platform, Billy.” Monaghan sauntered away with the terrier under his arm to meet up with the Beardie boy, who’d just won his group.

Billy watched him go, admiring again the clean lines of the suit, and the way it set off Monaghan’s trim waist and shoulders. His light smile pulled itself into a grin with a realization that pushed Bean to the back of his mind. Monaghan had called him by his first name, though they’d never been properly introduced.

Apparently, Monaghan’s name wasn’t the only one making the rounds.

 

 

Winnie won. Billy was again unsurprised; it was just another day’s work for them. But the look on Monaghan’s face was priceless. He was absolutely smoldering with fury. Billy made the rounds shaking hands, Bean nearly breaking his fingers before he moved on to the Husky man. Monaghan shook Billy’s hand without a word, quickly leaving the ring with the Beardie boy looking thoroughly steamed.

Once again he and Winnie were thrust in front of cameras where the snappish reporter pushed more ridiculous questions on him.

“Another Best in Show for Winnie, Mr. Boyd, how many does this make now?”

“You know, I’ve lost count,” Billy said, unsure of which of the three cameras he was meant to look at, if any, so he simply scanned the sidelines to see if he could spot Monaghan again.

“Three hundred and eight Best in Show wins for our viewers at home, which is unprecedented in the breed, isn’t it?” the reporter asked. Billy blinked, wondering whose arse she was pulling her stats from, and why did she ask if she already knew? When he didn’t answer, she addressed the judge next, who rattled off Winnie’s best assets as to why he chose her.

“Mr. Boyd, where will you be going next?” she came back to him.

“Next? I think I’ll be trying to find pub that serves a decent scotch,” he answered.

The reporter's smile began to resemble that of a starving tiger, “Where will you and Winnie be _showing_ after this?”

“Oh, er. Portland. Yes, we’ll be in Portland. Do they have scotch there?” he quipped. Winnie gave a telltale whinging yawn. “Ah, that means she’s done, please and thank you, no autographs and when is dinner?”

That got a laugh, and finally the woman turned her rabid attention back to the camera to sign off and Billy was ushered to the photographer’s bench for a million flashing pictures, fielding many more questions, congratulations and handshakes before they finally made a break for their van in the exhibitor car park.

Back at the motel, he served Winnie her mixture of kibble, ground venison and boiled vegetables and put a frozen miniature pizza in the microwave for himself.

“You’re a Deerhound, love.” He told her as she gobbled the food down, “Not a Wolfhound. Think dainty, lady-like bites.” She lifted her snout with bits of meat and drippings still clinging to her beard as the microwave dinged and he pulled the rubbery pizza out, looking at it disdainfully. “You certainly eat better than I do.”

Sitting in the chair by the cheaply veneered desk, he took a bite, switching on the telly as he contemplated the day. Flicking through the channels, he stopped and went back two, his gut giving a stupid lurch at seeing himself in the ring. The show must have been televised on a delay.

“Christ, I look like a nob,” he sighed, Winnie coming over to sit beside him, hoping for bits of his meal. “Maybe I should get a new suit, eh?” The telly scanned over the Husky man, who looked even worse, constantly glancing off to the sidelines for pointers from someone. Then it focused on Bean and his lovely Springer, yet again giving Billy a jolt of simultaneous guilt and rage. “Bastard.”

Next it focused in tight on the Wire Fox, tilting his head this way and that, tail going all the while as Monaghan pulled funny little faces at him. Billy smiled, reaching for Winnie’s velvety ears to scratch. “What did you think of them, eh?”

Winnie smacked her lips, eyeballing the pizza in his lap. “Mm, I thought so, too,” he murmured, plucking off a piece of freezer singed pepperoni for her.  


Fucking terriers. Dangerous as razorwire, they were. All flash and teeth and perky little rear ends. They say dogs and their people are alike.

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the date of my last update, this fic is not abandoned. I had a hard drive failure in 2012 and lost a huge amount of new material on a lot of my WIPs, including this one, and I have a lot of rewriting to do. I will come back to it, please have patience.


End file.
